“Good morning, travelers,” said the younger of the two, a twentysomething black woman wearing a purple beret and a Kalashnikov. “If you are not already known to us as a member of our community, please have your IDs and travel papers out. I know it’s a hassle, but we’ve had a lot of infiltrators lately. And if you are headed to the port, please get off here and wait for the cart that will take you down there.”

While she spoke to the passengers, her colleague, a bearded old white guy with a beat-up Saints cap and a shotgun slung low, was already sizing them up. Donny looked away.

Through the window he could see the monument at the heart of the Circle, the one that had once vaulted the Confederate general a hundred feet up in the air to watch for invaders from the north, not knowing the real danger came from the people at his feet, people who had finally gotten tired enough of the power he stood for that they were willing to do something about it. When the column that held him was toppled, they ritually buried the general in the muddy fathoms of the river. In his place, in the stump of rubble that was all that was left of the column, they planted a tree. It was some kind of oak, one that had been a sapling when they first liberated the city, but had grown remarkably fast since Donny’s last visit, big enough to create some shade under which a trio of young people were sitting and talking.

Donny watched from the corner of his eye as the old rebel guard, who Donny now realized actually looked a little bit like Robert E. Lee, made a pair of young guys get up out of their seats for handoff to the other guards waiting outside.

Donny looked back out the window, as if he had nothing to worry about.